


Artist's Block

by obscurio



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, the artist and model AU no one wanted but got anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscurio/pseuds/obscurio
Summary: Allura's suffering from artist's block, and Shiro just wants to help.





	Artist's Block

**Author's Note:**

> This work is un-beta'd, so if there's any mistakes, I apologize!

“My hands don’t want to cooperate with my brain,” Allura groans into her cup of coffee, taking small sips to avoid burning her tongue. “Do you ever have those moments where you have an _idea_ of what you want to do, but your brain just can’t…I don’t know, articulate it properly?”

Shiro hums under his breath, the corner of his lips twitching up into a smile, “I’m pretty sure all ideas start out like that, Allura.”

She throws a miffed look at her boyfriend, as if he had offended her in the worst way possible, “You’re terrible at comforting me sometimes, do you know that? You’re no help at all!”

He lets out a laugh whilst she continues to stew in inner turmoil over breakfast, which was a small affair since their table was littered with pencils, magazines, and piles of crumpled sheets of paper that grew with Allura’s ire. _Artist’s block_ , she had claimed earlier that week when she came home after another unfulfilling day at the studio. Shiro had tried to comfort her, though to no avail. Nothing seemed to console her.

But, in support of his girlfriend’s budding career, Shiro decided to offer himself up on a silver platter, as tribute to the art gods, to have mercy on their devout follower.

“How about I model for you? It’s my day off, and we hardly see each other since you’re always at the studio,” he says casually after taking away their plates and throwing them into the washer. “Maybe working with the basics will give you some inspiration while you draw my beer belly.”

Shiro manages to elicit a laugh out of her, but noting his serious expression, she mulls over his suggestion before acquiescing. He makes a move to grab his keys, but she stops him, her fingers encircling his wrist and leading him out of the room. Allura settles him onto their chaise lounge with orders to strip—“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Takashi!” —while she digs around their room for a spare sketchbook.

Allura returns, a joke on the tip of her tongue but stops short, catching her boyfriend in the midst of unbuttoning his slacks. Her materials clatter against the floor in tandem with her quickening heartbeat—a painful staccato that made her ribcage feel full yet empty as the very breath within her lungs escape her. He’s beautiful, a fact she hasn’t forgotten but often forgets as the days blend together, and he along with them. She takes her time appreciating the man he grew into. He had been an awkward teenager when they first met, with a slim body and gangly limbs that seemed to have a mind of their own. But time changes everything, and proof of such a metamorphosis appeared before her in the form of a man who filled out in _all_ the right places. Gone was the slouch and hunched shoulders of his youth—they had been easily replaced by confidence and finesse upon entering adulthood.

Gathering her wits about her, Allura lets her hair fall forward in a curtain just as he dropped his pants onto the floor, kicking them under the coffee table where a pile of his other articles of clothing were. His place in the middle of the room was a tactical move on her part since natural light peaked through the trees. The rays of the early morning sun bathed his skin in soft hues of yellow and gold, making his skin shine an ethereal glow.

“Just get comfortable,” Allura instructs, clearing her throat when her voice comes out hoarsely. “Hold that position for maybe fifteen minutes and we’ll try something new.”

Shiro murmurs his agreement, stretching before reclining into his seat like an all too comfortable feline. He offers her a kind smile before closing his eyes, heat suffusing his cheeks in what could be embarrassment. Allura missed this, drawing a model—or rather, drawing _him._ Cobalt eyes traced the lines of his body, and where her eyes once were, her hand immediately follows with a flourish of graphite.

She felt disembodied in that moment, the flowing of time seemed to slow until nothing existed but paper, the pencil which acted as an extension of herself, and _Shiro_.

The rough sketch was coming out well in Allura’s opinion, but her hand stops short when she hears him shifting against the pillows. Shiro stills when she lets out a hiss, reverting back to his earlier position with difficulty.

“Takashi!” His girlfriend cries, exasperated. “It hasn’t even been _five_ minutes!”

“My ass is itchy, okay?” He splutters, gesturing with his knee towards the afghan hanging on the sofa. “Wool doesn’t agree with me, Allura.”

She bites back a snort, choosing to approach him and shove the duvet to the floor and rearrange his limbs the way she liked before returning to her perch. Silence ensued as she lost herself in that trancelike state. Without consciously knowing it, Allura moves closer, her spectacles sliding down the bridge of her nose as she scrutinizes him, her pencil working across the page quickly.

“Babe.”

She ignores him, her gaze following the lines of his body southward.

“Allura—”

The woman lets out a groan, pushing her glasses up before settling another glare on the sable haired man.

“What is it _now?_ ” She sighs, tossing her sketchbook aside and settling into the space next to him. “We’ll never get anything done if you keep _moving_.”

“You were looking at my dick like it’s something under a microscope!” Shiro claims, showing signs of awkwardness. “It was getting a little uncomfortable.”

“Well that’s kinda what happens when you’re a modelling nude,” Allura drawls wryly. “You’re not supposed to look perfect. The point of nude sketches—at least for me—is to convey what the model is feeling. You gotta breathe life into art, or it’ll come off as flat.”

Leaning forward, she snags her sketchbook off of the floor, flipping through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for and showing him. Inky eyes widen then: he’s always known she had talent, but the rough sketches spaced across the pages truly showed who he was in essence. He could easily follow the slouch of insecurity in his shoulders, he could see embarrassment in the furrow of his brow. Somehow, in the span of a few minutes, Allura had managed to capture _him_ in those particular moments.

“These are amazing,” Shiro murmurs, the pads of his fingers brushing over the paper. “You make me look better than I really am. Are you sure these were drawn without bias?”

“Stop fishing for compliments! We both know you frequent the gym,” Allura insists, dropping her materials back onto the floor to slap the flat plain of his abdomen. “You don’t see what I see, but beauty has always been in the eye of the beholder.”

Maintaining eye contact, she speaks softly, hoping to convey in words the picture he creates through her eyes, “I see hard work in the callouses of your hands, I see strength in the lines of your back. Your eyes are a bottomless abyss, seemingly empty, but speaks volumes of kindness and determination. Your smile could be a wonder of the world, Takashi Shirogane. Don't you know that?”

He chuckles then, abashed, as he pulls her up from the opposite end of the chaise lounge, and settles her unto his lap, “You sure know how to stroke a guy’s ego.”

Her fingers dance along the expanse of his arms before interlacing at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, “I’ve got in lot of practice over the years.”

Her lips ghost over his, their breath intermingling before he closes the distance between them. It’s soft and sweet, like lazy afternoons spent lying in bed together, basking in comfortable silence. He deepens the kiss, tilting his head just so before flitting his tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing them to part for him. With a sigh, she obliges, her fingers digging into the soft skin of his shoulders.

They part after a moment, their breathing labored and lips swollen. Shiro’s eyes dart south, eyeing her oversized sweater. He tugs at the frayed edge of her sleeve, whispering, “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Sounds like a first world problem,” Allura teases, but allows him to peel her jumper off whilse slipping out of his boxer’s she nabbed when she awoke. Chest to chest, nose to nose, she presses a line of butterfly kisses along the edge of his jaw. “I’ve missed you.”

“Want you,” he manages to say against her skin when he switches their positions in a surprising display of dexterity.

“You have me,” she answers in kind.

They move together with the practiced ease of long time lovers. Shiro knows where to touch her: with his hands he’s mapped out the contours of her body, he’s chartered paths with his fingertips, and etched poetry upon her skin with his lips. And likewise, Allura knows him like the back of her hand, like he’s an extension of her body when they’re conjoined. She’s traced the plains of his chest with her lips, dragged her nails across the flesh of his back, and laid witness to the face he makes when he comes apart under her ministrations.

They always were better together, like two artists partaking in a duet, skillfully working in tandem to support one another to reach the inevitable end.

They lay together swathed in a sweet embrace, their legs tangled together as they wait for their heartbeats to slow, and their heated skin to cool. Allura burrows deeper into the cradle of his arms, her fingertips lazily drawing a love letter along his forearm.

“This wasn’t how I wanted things to go,” Shiro sighs, gently carding his fingers through her hair. “I wanted to help you, not distract you.”

“Artists of all sorts have the innate ability to use sexual energy and convert it into productive energy,” Allura scoffs, moving to sit upright and lean over him to scoop the abandoned sketchbook off the floor along with her array of pencils. “Now sit still and look pretty, my love. You look beautiful like this.”

“And not before?”

“Every time.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently joined the Voltron community, and fell in love with Shiro and Allura's co-leader dynamic. They're honestly #RelationshipGoals! So here's a small thing dedicated to my OTP, as well as to the wonderful people in the Shallura Discord!


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